


A Thousand Winds That Blow

by AmeliaHope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Gen, Illusions To Death, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmeliaHope/pseuds/AmeliaHope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Mycroft told someone he was dying and the one time that he found out himself. Title from “Do Not Stand By My Grave And Weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anthea

“Sir?” She appeared in his doorway. A tea cup in her hand.

“Come in, my dear.”

She placed the cup down on his desk.

“Thank you.”

“How did it go?”

He shook his head. That's enough.

“Oh.”

“Sit down, my dear.”

She sat down on the chair in front of his desk.

“There are things we must discuss.”

“Discuss?”

“Yes. We must discuss your future.”

“My future, Sir?” Anthea was momentarily confused.

“I will, of course, ensure that you have another position to go to before I… If that’s what you want.”

“Aren’t you going to fight it?”

“There is no point. It’s not a fight I can win.”

“But you never give in.”

“I am already beaten. I wish to use the time I have left well. I don’t wish to spend in in hospital.”

“I don’t know what to say, Sir.”

Mycroft smiled weakly. “Say nothing at all. Just listen to me. Once I have informed my family I will speak to the prime minister and offer him my resignation. I will also offer him my recommendation for a successor. I’ll recommend you. I can think of no one better to ensure the security of this country.”


	2. John

John looked up from the paper he was reading, he could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Not Sherlock, nor Mrs Hudson, nor Lestrade. The characteristic tap of the umbrella gave him away. “Mycroft? Sherlock isn’t here.”

“I know. I’m here to see you, not my brother.”

“Oh.”

Mycroft hesitated in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

“Do you want to sit down?” John said, indicating the chair opposite him. Sherlock’s chair.

Mycroft carefully lowered himself into the chair with a sigh.

“Is everything ok, Mycroft? You don’t look well.”

Mycroft shook his head briefly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh. Do you need medical advice?”

Mycroft shook his head again. “It’s too late for that. I have cancer.”

John paused for a moment, wondering if he had heard that correctly. “I’m sorry. What’s the prognosis?”

“It’s terminal.”

“God. Shit. I’m really sorry. How long?”

“Six months. Maybe a little more. Probably less. Certainly no more than a year.”

“Have you had a second opinion? I can recommend a good oncologist.”

“Second, third, fourth. I’ve been seen by the most renowned oncologists in the country.”

“What about treatment?”

“Chemotherapy is an option. I’ve declined it.”

“Why?”

“It can’t cure me. At best it may give me a few more weeks. But at what cost? I don’t want to waste what little time I have left in hospital.”

John nodded. He would probably do the same. “I take it you haven’t told Sherlock yet?” He asked, after a pause.

Mycroft shook his head.

“You have to tell him.”

“I will. I need you to promise me something first.”

“What?”

“I need you to promise that you’ll take care of my brother. Please. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

John could hear the desperation in his voice. It sounded wrong coming from Mycroft. “I’ll look after him. You have my word.”

“Thank you, John. Thank you.” Mycroft said with a sigh of relief. “That makes this all much easier.” He sighed again. “He’ll be the sole beneficiary of my estate. He’ll never want for anything. I’ve instructed my solicitor to give him an allowance each month. I don’t want him to waste the money. And I don’t want him to spend it on drugs.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He might. If you ever think he is using again, then…” He leaned forwards with a slight wince and handed John a card. “The contact details of the solicitor. You can stop the allowance. The solicitor will arrange for Sherlock to go into rehab.”

“Shouldn’t your parents be the one to make that decision?”

Mycroft shook his head. “They’ve never been able to say no to Sherlock. But you can. I know that you’ll make the difficult decisions, when I’m not around to make them. Please?”

“OK.”

“Promise me!”

“I promise.”


	3. Sherlock

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock called, as his brother made his way slowly up the stairs.

“Sherlock, play nice.” John muttered, standing from his chair and going out to greet Mycroft. He was shocked to see how much he had deteriorated in the few days since he had seen him last.

“Are you…?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded. He’d come to deliver the bad news to his brother.

“I’ll be in my room.” John said, wanting to give them some privacy. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, John.”

“What were you two whispering about?” Sherlock asked as Mycroft appeared in the living room.

“Nothing.”

“Hmm. So what do you want?”

Mycroft took his time sitting in John’s recently vacated chair. “I have something I need to tell you.”

Sherlock looked at his brother for a moment. “Are you ill?”

“Yes.”

“It’s serious.” It was a statement not a question.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Cancer.”

“What sort?”

“Lung cancer. It’s spread.”

“Is it terminal?”

“Yes … less than six months.”

Sherlock stood suddenly, picking up his violin and balancing it beneath his chin. He began playing an unbearably melancholic tune. He could hear Mycroft sighing behind him. He stood with his back to him. It would be harder for Mycroft to deduce anything from his back alone. “I don’t know what to say.” Sherlock said without stopping playing.

“You don’t need to say anything.”

“I want to. I just don’t know what.”

“I never thought I would see the great Sherlock Holmes lost for words.” Mycroft said with a smirk.

“Shut up, Mycroft!”

“That’s better.”

"Have you told them yet?"

"I'm going to see them now. I wanted you to know first."


	4. Parents

“Hello.” Mycroft called as he closed the front door behind him.

His mother appeared at the end of the hall. “Mycroft!” She smiled at him, holding her arms out.

Mycroft deposited his umbrella and walked forwards into his mother’s arms. “What a lovely surprise. How are you, darling?”

Mycroft kissed his mother on the cheek, smoothly side stepping the question. “Is Father here?”

“He’s out in the garden.” She frowned at him for not answering her question. “I’ll put the kettle on, you go and call him in.”

Mycroft ducked as he stepped through the back door and out into the cottage garden. He walked across the lawn towards the shed beside the back hedge. He knocked gently against the wooden wall.

His father jumped slightly and turned to face the doorway. “Mycroft. How nice to see you.” He stripped his gardening gloves off and held his hand out to shake his son’s hand.

“Mother has put the kettle on.”

“Wonderful, I’m gasping for a cup of tea. And I believe she has been baking this morning.”

“The garden is looking good.” Mycroft said as they walked towards the house.

“The new roses are growing well.” Siger said as they entered the kitchen.

Tea cups were laid out on the scrubbed wooden table and Violet was pouring boiling water into a teapot. They sat down around the table and Violet poured the tea. They talked about nonsense for a few minutes, Mycroft enquiring after his parents’ health and his parents asking about Sherlock. Siger and Violet exchanged concerned looks at Mycroft engaging in small talk.

“Mycroft, dear, it’s lovely of you to visit but a little unusual. Is there something wrong?”

Mycroft swallowed a mouthful of tea and put his cup back down in his saucer. “There is something I need to tell you.”

Violet reached over and took his hand.

Mycroft opened his mouth but couldn’t find the words.

“Just tell us, son.”

“I…” Mycroft took a deep breath, hating the look on his parents’ faces. “I have cancer.”

His parents looked momentarily stunned.

“Oh Mycroft.” His mother whispered.

“How, er,” Siger was lost for words, “how bad?”

Mycroft looked down at where his hand was joined with his mother’s, noticing that they were shaking but not knowing which one of them was causing it. “There’s nothing they can do.” He whispered. He looked up to see tears dripping down his mother’s face.

“Oh Mycroft.” She said again.

“How long?” Siger asked, his voice cracking.

“I saw my oncologist yesterday; he predicts three to six months if it continues progressing as it is.” It was easier to talk about it like this, in cold, clinical terms.

“Is there nothing they can do?"

“I’ve been offered chemotherapy which I have declined.”

Siger opened his mouth to interrupt but Mycroft continued talking.

“It would give me a few more weeks at best, I don’t want to waste my last few months for the possibility of a few weeks.”

Violet nodded. “Will you come home? Stay with us?” She clung to her husband and son’s hands as though that alone would be enough to keep the cancer at bay.

“I’d like to stay in my own home for as long as is practical but there will come a point when that is no longer possible. I haven’t made a decision yet about what I will do then.”

“Please, Mikey, come home.”

For once Mycroft didn’t correct his mother’s use of his childhood nickname. “Ok. When that time arrives, I’ll come home. But on one condition.”

“Ok.”

“That I hire a nurse to provide any care needed. I won’t have you doing that.”

“Mycroft, no.”

“That is my only condition, I don’t want that being your lasting memory of me. Please, agree to that or I will arrange for residential care.”

“Mikey-“

“We can accept that.” Siger interrupted. “Have you told Sherlock?”

Mycroft nodded. “I saw him this morning.”

“How did he take it?”

“I’m not sure. But John was there so…”


	5. The Prime Minister

The Prime Minister stood from behind his desk as Mycroft was shown into the office. He held his hand out and they shook firmly. “How are you, Mycroft?”

“That’s actually why I requested this meeting.”

The Prime Minister frowned. “Take a seat.”

Mycroft took his time sitting down, trying to hide the weakness that he felt. He pulled a stiff white envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it across to the Prime Minister.

The PM turned the envelope over and ripped it open using a silver letter opener. He skimmed through the typed words. He looked up at Mycroft, an expression of shock on his face. “Why?”

“I have cancer. And only a few months left.”

The PM ran his hand through his hair. “Jesus.”

Mycroft tried to smile reassuringly.

The PM looked deeply sad. “I’m sorry. Both for you and this country.”

“It has been the greatest honour to serve my country as I have done.” He paused. “But now I must put my family first. I don’t have much time and I wish to spend it with them.”

“Of course you do. Is there anything that can be done?”

“No, nothing that would make a worthwhile difference.”

The PM nodded, understanding his meaning. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I would like to make a recommendation for my successor, if I may.”

“Of course, I always listen to your advice.”

“I would like to recommend my assistant.”

“Anthea? She doesn’t have a lot of experience.”

“In an ideal world I would be available to advise my successor. But I don’t have the time. No one knows more about my responsibilities than Anthea. She is wise beyond her years. She would make an ideal replacement.”


	6. Mycroft

“I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

“Cancer?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“With chemotherapy … six months … maybe a little more.”

“And without”

“Less.”

…

“We can make a more accurate prognosis with further testing.”

“I don’t want chemotherapy.”

“Mycroft, chemo could give you a few more…”

“Weeks?”

…

“Then no, thank you.”


End file.
